Breathe
by stupidsexyprussia
Summary: "What was it that we learned in Health that time? It's basic fucking first aid, you idiot. You should be able to remember this. Keep the subject's airway clear. Scoop any vomit from their mouth before beginning to breathe air into the subject's lungs. Do not panic if you break a rib. Fuck, what if I break his rib?" PruCan.


**A/N**

**As always, thank you for taking the time to read this. I appreciate every favourite, alert and review. **

**-Louise**

* * *

Breathe.

It was a prayer. A whisper to the heavens, a plea for something he didn't deserve – but _he_ did.

_He_ was lying still and helpless on the foam-stained sand, his blonde haired matted and his baggy red hoodie soaked through with seawater. _He_ was going to die because Gilbert couldn't get the fucking water out of his lungs fast enough.

Again he tipped the blonde's head back, opened his mouth and blew air into his lungs. One, two, three. He counted the seconds, pressing down on his chest and trying to jump-start that heartbeat that was so dangerously soft.

_What was it that we learned in Health that time? It's basic fucking first aid, you idiot. You should be able to remember this. Keep the subject's airway clear. Scoop any vomit from their mouth before beginning to breathe air into the subject's lungs. Do not panic if you break a rib._

_Fuck, what if I break his rib?_

A new wave of horror swept through Gilbert, but he forced himself to concentrate. More compressions. More air. Keep going, don't stop.

Then, finally Matthew began to breathe.

He coughed, spluttered and vomited all of the seawater that he had swallowed, bile flowing from his mouth as he retched again and again. He shook from the cold, his lips blue and his skin deathly pale.

But oh god, he was _alive_.

And Gilbert was so angry.

"What were you thinking?" He demanded, as soon as Matthew looked at him, his eyes big and wide and bloodshot. "It's the middle of fucking winter and you thought it might be nice to take a quick dip?" Gilbert wanted to shake him.

Matthew's breath hitched in his throat, and suddenly tears were leaking from the edges of his eyes and sliding down his cheeks. "I…" He shook his head, "You shouldn't… you're… you have goose bumps."

Gilbert gnashed his teeth together. "Shut the fuck up, kid." He growled, tugging off his wet shirt and wringing it out. Gramps would kill him for ruining it, but he'd worry about that later. "What were you doing in there, Matthew?" Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his dripping hair. He already knew the answer. He wanted to hear him say it. For once, he wanted to hear it from Matthew's mouth, not from psych shit he read online or questions he asked that fucker Alfred F. Jones, who dealt with depressed, self-pitying Arthur Kirkland enough to know a thing or two about it. Unlike Gilbert, who knew nothing but needed to know everything.

Matthew put his face in his hands and began to shake. His breath came out like hiccups and he was ripping at his hair. Alarmed, Gilbert grabbed the Canadian's shoulders.

"Matt? Mattie, stop it!" He pleaded. "Mattie, just tell me why you were in the water so I can help you. We could take you to see someone who knows… I don't know… what to say to make things better."

"Why'd you pull me out, Gil?" Matthew asked softly, hoarsely. He slumped forward, and immediately Gilbert's arms shot out to catch him. "It was so wonderful. So fucking wonderful. It was just nothing. Where I belong." Then, his eyes closed, and he said no more.

* * *

Days later, Matthew woke up.

The world was fuzzy, even after he'd rubbed at his eyes to try and clear them. An IV jutted from his hand, a purplish bruise colouring underneath the needle. He stared at it in wonder. "What…?"

Nurses flocked to his bed, paging doctors and running to inform his family he'd woken open. He was asked some questions – _what's your name? Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?_

_Matthew Williams. A hospital. I tried to drown myself. _

It sounded strangely mechanical. Such harsh words said with so little feeling. He was allowed to lie back and close his eyes. His family would be there soon. Un-fucking-fortunately. He didn't want them to see him like this. He wasn't supposed to have survived.

He watched them trudge in, lines woven permanently into their forehead and around their eyes. Lines he'd created by doing what he did. Maybe once he would've cared. Not anymore. His mother burst into tears when she saw him, rushing forward and throwing her arms around him as best she could. He accepted her hug. He owed her that, at least

More tests. More questions. More crying. A mental health examination, psychiatrist bookings, prescription medication. Suicide watch. Possible institutionalisation. Concern with the lack of emotional response.

Matthew scoffed at that last one. What did he have left to feel? Put him in an ice rink on the front line facing off against the Boston Bruins and _then _they might get a response. Anger was something he could do. Not this fucking _how do you feel _bullshit. If he knew how he felt, he would've been able to deal with the thing inside his head.

_Will Matthew be able to return to school? _

"Yes." Matthew had cut in, his eyes suddenly clear. "As soon as I'm discharged I'm going back."

Three pairs of eyes watched him warily. "Are you sure you want to… so soon…?" His father had tried. Matthew had nodded, rattling off some bullshit about wanting to get some normalcy back so he could 'get better'.

And so he came back. He walked with his back straight, his eyes facing straight ahead of him, not caring who looked at him. And they did look. For once in their life they looked. They'd all been _informed _of the _incident _while he was still in hospital. Already countless girls who he'd never spoken to before had run to him and offered shoulders to cry on. He'd told them to fuck off and leave him alone, because he was different to who he had been before and he had no time for bullshit anymore.

The hardest part was avoiding _him_. The boy with the crimson eyes who was always watching him, trying to talk to him, trying to break through. Gilbert, the boy who had pulled him out of the water.

"Who the fuck are you, Matthew?" Gilbert had growled, shoving his face inches from the other's, "Tell me, because I really don't know anymore. Let me help –"

Matthew had slammed him into the locker, eyes narrowed. "I don't know either, so _fuck off _while I figure it out, eh?" Gilbert had pushed back, cursing in German under his breath, but he'd done as he was told. Until the next time they saw each other.

Matthew was leaving late after school, pieces of his latest art assignment tucked underneath one arm. Gilbert was waiting for him – _your mom called. She wanted me to make sure you got home safely._

_I don't need a fucking babysitter._

They'd argued then, shouting at each other until Matthew couldn't take it anymore. He snarled and closed the gap between them, entangling his fingers in Gilbert's hair and crashing their lips together. Tongues explored between frantic gasps, Gilbert's hands running over the soft skin of his stomach and hips. Somehow they made it to the bathroom and ducked inside, closing the door behind them.

Gilbert tore his shirt off and reached for Matthew's, wrestling him out of it and pressing kisses to his collarbone. Matthew whimpered softly, his anger and hurt slowly disappearing beneath the urgent _need _he felt for Gilbert. Gilbert's kisses turned angry, his teeth grazing the skin and leaving marks.

"You, fucking, bastard." He hissed, pausing to kiss him between each word. "_Why_?" Matthew shook beneath him, his body on fire because Gilbert's hands and mouth were _everywhere_ and it was if everything else in his mind was swallowed up by this feeling leaving nothing but _want _behind. "_Why_?"

Gilbert was crying but Matthew didn't think he even realised it. He pressed two hands over Matthew's chest, threading his fingers together. "I had to break your fucking _rib_." He snarled, pressing down a little. He pressed another kiss to Matthew's lips, tongue sneaking inside. "I had to scoop the bile from your fucking _mouth_."

"Gilbert," Matthew whispered, "_Fuck_."

"And you can't even tell me _why_?" Gilbert's fingers curled around the front of his jeans, squeezing. Matthew cried out, fingernails digging into Gilbert's back. Why was it that this damned Prussian could make him feel so much?

"Because I couldn't-" Gilbert ground their hips together, and Matthew bit his lip to keep from moaning, "I couldn't fucking take it anymore." He whimpered as Gilbert undid the front of his pants. "I still – oh _God _– can't."

"You're so beautiful, Birdie." Gilbert murmured, looking up to meet Matthew's gaze. The intensity of it was frightening, and Matthew looked away first. He was being kissed again and again and then the tears came, spilling down his cheeks. Gilbert kissed them away and drew him close. "Do you know how fucking _scared _I was? _Verdammt_, Matthew… I was _terrified._"

"I'm not good for you, not like this." Matthew whispered brokenly, too exhausted for anger but not for pain.

"You're good for me no matter what you're like, Birdie." Gilbert said fiercely, "No matter what." He'd hugged him for what seemed like hours, almost afraid that if he let go, Matthew would disappear.

He wished he could.


End file.
